


yes, oh

by PaintedSorceress



Series: self-indulgent trash [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (implied more than anything), Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, Cooking, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exam Stress, Exams, Good Peter Hale, Graduate Student Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Pet Names, Peter Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Has ADHD, Stress, Tenderness, Wolf Instincts, but it's not a huge plot point or anything, grad school, idk if it's REALLY h/c but it has those vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29590794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedSorceress/pseuds/PaintedSorceress
Summary: Stiles is stressed about his upcoming comps exam, and Peter decides to help out.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: self-indulgent trash [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093904
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	yes, oh

**Author's Note:**

> more of the self-indulgent trash series. 'cause of course i'd do this instead of actually, you know, prepping for the huge exam i have in 10 days *upside down smile emoji* let me know if i need to/should add anything to the tags or whatever :)

On the couch around him was a mess of books and papers and junk food. While it may have looked like a discouraging mess to anyone else, to Stiles it was the mark of a state of flow—his brain, which he’d been fighting all week, was finally working with him. His preparation for the exam that would determine if he was worthy of doctoral candidacy was actually progressing, which was more than he could have said about it even two days prior. 

His eyes burned slightly from staring at screens for so long, and after the migraine he’d given himself last weekend, he was trying to be more careful. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch for half a minute, before opening them and glancing out the window. A faint smile flashed across his face as he saw big, fluffy snowflakes drifting down, and he let himself watch for a few minutes. After all, he was trying to keep the “20-20-20” rule in mind, and make sure to look at something distant (at least 20 feet away) for 20 seconds every 20 minutes. He wasn’t great at remembering the “every 20 minutes” part, but he could manage letting his eye muscles stretch and move out of their fixed state by changing his focus. 

The past week, he mused, had been a Bad Time—capital B and capital T. He’d tried to ignore the signs of severe eye strain for several days before his eyes rebelled and made their opinions known by instigating a pounding headache that completely resisted any and all attempts to mitigate it, and by making him physically incapable of looking at a screen for longer than three minutes at a time. So he’d lost three full days of work time with only two weeks to go before his exam started. Combined with the fact that he’d wasted a lot of the past several months of prep time as well (damn his ADHD brain!), his stress and anxiety levels were through the roof at the moment. 

But it was going to be okay. He had 10 days left to cover the 83 texts on his reading list and be able to make connections and detailed and nuanced arguments about their thematic links and their place in the entire field of study. He could totally manage that, right? While also remembering to sleep and eat and hydrate and shower and take care of his cat…

God, what wouldn’t he give to have someone around to help take care of him right now?

+++

A loud and impatient knock jarred him out of his headspace—Stiles jumped about three feet in the air, scattering papers around himself in shock. His heart pounding, he rose and tripped his way to the door, muttering to himself about the cat toys and piles of books everywhere. He swung it open to reveal the person who’d nearly given him a heart attack.

“Peter? What are you doing here? You scared the shit out of me, what the fuck? Is everything okay? How did you get into the building? I didn’t buzz you in. Is there something wrong? Oh god, please don’t tell me there’s a monster of the week we have to research, Peter, I can’t handle that right now! Oh my god—”

Peter raised his hands and cut off his panic spiral. “Stiles! Stop talking. Just… breathe, okay?” He waited until Stiles took a breath. “Everything’s fine, there’s no monster of the week that I’m aware of. I got into the building by helping Mrs. Jankowski carry in her groceries. I’m here to check in on you because you haven’t been communicating as much as normal, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

Peter gave a small smirk. “Yes, oh. And I can see by your current state that it’s a good thing I decided to come by.” 

He walked into the apartment, not bothering to wait for Stiles’ invitation. He scanned the open-plan living space and kitchen, noting the books and papers that exploded out from around the couch and the junk food in that area, as well as the slightly stale scent of the kitchen. The apartment was saturated in the scent of Stiles’ stress and anxiety, and his nose wrinkled slightly as he turned back to the man in question.

“When’s the last time you took a shower, sweetheart?”

A noise of pure indignation left Stiles’ throat. “What the hell! You barged in here to tell me I smell bad?!”

“No, you never smell bad, darling. But I can scent the stress you’ve been under lately. You smell like anxiety and old tears and stale Goldfish crackers. Your clothes are at least a couple days old. Why don’t you take a break from this,” here he waved in the direction of the couch, “and go shower and freshen up a bit? I’ll still be here when you’re done, and we can chat.”

Stiles glanced in the direction of his bathroom, knowing that Peter was right—he was overdue for a shower and a change of clothes, even if only for his own sake. Now that it had been pointed out, he felt grungy and generally kind of icky. He sighed. “Okay, fine. But I don’t have a lot of time for a chat, Peter, so don’t get too comfortable.”

Peter had already started turning away, and he waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder without another word. Stiles huffed and made off towards the bedroom to gather a change of clothes.

As Stiles left the living area, Peter stepped into the kitchen and opened the fridge, assessing the state of Stiles’ groceries. The shelves were a bit bare, but the situation wasn’t entirely dire. There was a packet from a weekly meal kit that hadn’t yet been cooked, and he pulled that out to examine the contents. The chicken was about to reach its best-by date, and Peter could tell that Stiles hadn’t had a full meal with protein _and_ vegetables in at least a couple days. He started opening cabinets to locate pots and pans and other utensils, working on putting together the chicken stir-fry before Stiles finished in the bathroom. 

As Stiles stepped out of his bathroom, feeling fresh and squeaky clean for the first time in days, a pleasant aroma drifted from the kitchen. He walked towards the source of the smell and stared in shock at the domesticity of the scene. 

“Are you… cooking my food?” he asked, bewildered.

Peter glanced at him as he put the finishing touches on the meal, plating half of it and putting the other half directly into a container to be stored in the fridge for later. “Yes, I am. The chicken needed to be used, and it was pretty clear that you haven’t been feeding yourself properly the past couple days, so I thought I’d lend a hand. Here, sit.” He put the plate down on the table, where an actual place-setting waited for Stiles, with a glass of sparkling water gathering condensation. 

His jaw agape, Stiles processed everything for a moment, before jolting into action as his stomach protested loudly against the day’s lack of a proper meal. He didn’t know whether to be grateful for Peter’s help, or insulted by his insinuation that Stiles wasn’t taking care of himself. While he decided, he might as well eat.

He tucked into the meal with a sigh of pleasure, pausing after a couple bites to look at Peter where he sat across the table. “Thank you,” he mumbled around a bite of food.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, love,” came Peter’s reply. “And you’re very welcome.”

As he ate, Stiles contemplated the current situation. Peter and he were relatively close nowadays, often texting and even talking on the phone on occasion. They had spent a lot of time together doing research for the pack. In fact, Stiles was fairly certain that he was the person Peter was closest to in the pack. He could put the cooking and feeding and general concern down to the wolf’s instincts to provide and take care of a packmate, but what were all the pet names about? Before he could swallow the last bite and ask a question, Peter beat him to it.

“What are you working on that’s got you so absorbed, lately?”  
Stiles glanced back at the living area and the couch. “I’ve got my comps exam coming up in a little over a week, and I’m really stressed because I feel unprepared. Sorry I haven’t been texting as much as usual.”

Peter smiled softly at him. “That’s alright. I was just curious and decided to come see what was going on. I imagine it’s a lot to manage, but I have faith in you.”

Stiles sighed and looked away. At least he hadn’t assured him that he would pass the exam—he was getting sick and tired of everyone telling him that he had nothing to worry about. His concerns about this exam weren’t due to a lack of self-confidence or imposter syndrome. He was concerned because he, realistically, had not done enough preparation. He’d wasted months of prep time doing nothing, watching Netflix and reading fanfiction, playing video games, and now that procrastination was coming back to bite him in the ass. 

Peter watched various emotions flit over Stiles’ face, inhaled subtly to gauge his scent. The acrid scent of anxiety from earlier had dissipated, but Stiles’ base scent was now tinged with sadness and disappointment. He reached out and put a hand on the boy’s wrist, rubbing his thumb gently over the back of his hand. “Stiles, whatever happens with this exam, it’ll be alright. I won’t presume to know exactly how stressed you’re feeling, or all the details of this exam, or how things will turn out. But remember that it doesn’t define your worth or intelligence. You don’t need to pass this comps exam in order for me to know how smart and valuable you are as a packmate. Things will be fine, sweetheart, trust me.”

Stiles swallowed hard against the lump that rose in his throat, fighting the tears that welled in his eyes. As the sob built inside him, he lost the battle and felt a tear fall, then another, and another, faster and faster. Peter rose, drawing Stiles up with him, and pulled him in, wrapping his arms around him tightly. Stiles rested his forehead in the crook of Peter’s neck and let the sobs out, muffling the noise against the man’s chest and soaking his t-shirt with tears. Eventually his crying slowed down and stopped, but he stayed where he was, resting his weight against the werewolf, confident in his ability to hold him up. 

Peter ran a hand comfortingly up and down his back, the other arm still wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He gave a little hum. “It seems like that was long overdue, wasn’t it, darling?”

Stiles nodded against Peter’s shoulder. “Thank you. I’m sorry I ruined your shirt,” he muttered. 

“Nonsense, sweetheart. It’s just a t-shirt, and it’ll wash. I’m glad you let all that out.”

With a final sigh, Stiles drew back a bit and released the fists he had clenched in said shirt, sliding his palms lightly over the wrinkles he’d made at Peter’s waist. “Why do you keep calling me that?” he asked.

“Calling you what?” Peter frowned.

Stiles hesitated a moment, before blurting it out. “Sweetheart and darling and love, and stuff. I don’t… You shouldn’t call people those things if you don’t mean it.” His gaze was now firmly fixed on Peter’s socked feet.

A gentle hand took his chin and raised his face. “Who ever said I didn’t mean it?” 

Stiles’ heart fluttered. “I… really?” His voice was doubtful, still hesitant to believe what seemed somehow too good to be true.

Peter smiled at him, a smile that Stiles had never seen directed at anyone else. “Really.”

The corners of Stiles’ mouth began to lift, returning that soft and tender smile. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” Peter chuckled.

Maybe Stiles did have someone around to help take care of him, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> if literally anyone at all reads this... thank you for tolerating my poor coping mechanisms and you're very lovely, i hope this wasn't a waste of time <3


End file.
